


Lights Out and Away We Go

by ToBebbanburg



Series: F1 AU [1]
Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Enemies to Lovers, M/M, Nicky hides snacks for his friends about the place in every univers, and another trope, being locked in together, only one bed more like only one hideous 70s fur jacket, that old classic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:04:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27010123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ToBebbanburg/pseuds/ToBebbanburg
Summary: Welcome to my incredibly niche 70s F1 au, where Nicky and Joe are competing drivers whose rivalry comes to a head one race when they take each other out.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Series: F1 AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2149191
Comments: 43
Kudos: 265





	Lights Out and Away We Go

**Author's Note:**

> It's the 70s my dudes, so imagine Nicky as having Luca’s Primo look, and Joe looking like Marwan in The Angel (although look, I was so tempted to give Joe Harald Ertl’s facial hair just for the lols, be thankful I didn't)

Joe wasn’t a violent man by nature. He’d never willingly entered a fight in his life and yes, even though he’d _dreamt_ about punching the smug smirk off his rival di Genova’s face multiple times he would never actually _do_ it.

And yet, when said rival decided that Joe was the one to blame for causing the collision that took them both out of the race, Joe found himself dodging punches outside the McLaren garage and doing his damned best to hit back.

It was almost certainly not his fault they had crashed as they turned the first corner of the 30th lap. Joe’s front wing had been _almost_ half a car’s length away from di Genova’s, and the Italian had no right to turn into him and force him into the barrier as he had done. The blame was certainly split in Joe’s favour at 80:20. 70:30. Maybe.

Di Genova certainly didn’t think so. The second both men had made it back to the pits he had come for Joe, shouting all manner of curses in Italian. They hadn’t even had the chance to take their helmets off. Di Genova had shoved him to make his point. Joe had shoved back, harder. Things had escalated from there.

“Asshole!” Di Genova shouted as several pairs of hands reached out to restrain them both. He ripped off his helmet and stared at Joe, his eyes wild. He looked almost feral.

“You turned into me!” Joe shouted back, fumbling with his own helmet. “On what planet is that a sensible move?”

“I had the racing line, you should have backed off.” Di Genova insisted.

“ _I_ had it.”

“Gentlemen, please.” A woman interrupted them both, and Joe turned to see Andy, the race director, walking towards them. Her words were measured, but her face was thunderous.

“Take a minute, cool off, then go to the steward’s office. _Both of you_. And don’t for one second think about starting this nonsense again once I turn my back. Fight all you like in your own time but _not_ in front of the cameras, no matter what you think it may do for the ratings. You have five minutes.”

Di Genova spat on the floor by Joe’s feet before allowing his mechanics to usher him back into the garage. Joe made several rude hand gestures at his back before doing the same. He resisted the temptation to kick the wreck of a car that lay in front of him and instead closed his eyes, trying to get his breathing under control. Things had been heating up between himself and di Genova the whole season and now, halfway through when they had emerged as the two title contenders it seemed that things had finally reached breaking point.

“Looks like Le Livre’s got it in the bag now.” One of the mechanics remarked glumly.

“I’m sorry.” Joe sighed. “I’ll do better next week.”

“Not your fault. Ferrari need to get their boys in order.”

His mechanic was being kind. The more Joe looked back on the incident the more he realised that maybe, just this once, he had made a bad move. He should have waited until the next chicane and taken di Genova then instead of refusing to brake. Hindsight was a bitch.

He dug out a bottle of water from his bag and downed a good half of it, then tipped the rest over his head in an attempt to clear away the sweat and tension that came with racing. He needed to be able to think clearly if he was going to face di Genova _and_ the stewards.

*****

All things considered, they both got off lightly. A “racing incident” the stewards had generously decided, although their post-crash behaviour was heavily reprimanded. Di Genova at least seemed to have calmed down, and didn’t say a single word during the meeting. He more than made up for it with pointed glares, however, which Joe staunchly ignored.

The race had finished by the time they left the office, Le Livre claiming the victory by a comfortable margin. Not enough to be a threat for the championship yet, but if he and di Genova collided another couple of times it could well be disastrous for the both of them. Joe wondered if he should join in the celebrations in the pits- after all, a Renault victory was far better than one for Ferrari, but his heart wasn’t in it. Instead he walked out along the track, searching for an unoccupied bit of grass to sit and wait out the worst of the media storm he was sure was waiting for him.

He waited, and waited, and watched the mechanics in the distance start to box things up ready to be transported to the next race. When the pits finally emptied of hangers-on Joe decided it was time to return, and on a whim he decided to drop by the Ferrari garage and try to apologise to Nicky (as once the haze from the race lifted they all tended to slip back into first names). It wouldn’t do to let things get worse between them: it would only lead to the ruin of both their careers.

A few of the mechanics formed a wall in front of their star driver when Joe approached, but he put his hands up in the air in a gesture of peace.

“I just want to talk.” He said. “Un minuto, per favore.”

They parted, revealing Nicky sitting on the remains of his car smoking a cigarette. Like Joe, he hadn’t changed out of his race suit, but he had stripped it to the waist and was wearing a thin white tshirt underneath. He looked ridiculously composed for someone who had both escaped a high velocity crash and started a fight within the last few hours, and that mere fact alone raised Joe’s hackles. Who gave such an asshole the right to look so good?

“You want to talk?” Nicky asked him, taking a drag on his cigarette and waving his mechanics away. “Apologise, maybe?”

Apologising was suddenly the last thing on Joe’s mind.

“Apologise for what? I’m not the one who decided to fight dirty off the track as well as on it.” He said, walking into the garage.

“Woah.” Nicky held up his hands, hopping down from his car and away from Joe. “Let’s just forget the whole thing.”

“Why, are you scared?” Joe took another step forward. He had no intention of laying hands on Nicky again, but _something_ was pulling him towards the other man.

“Of you? Never. Of Andy? Yes.”

“Good boy.” Andy called from outside the garage.

Joe turned around only to realise that all the mechanics had left, and it was only himself and Nicky in the garage. A pit formed in his stomach as he saw Andy reach up to pull on the shutter of the garage door, and couldn’t react fast enough to stop her from slamming it down into place and locking it.

Nicky swore, stubbing out his cigarette and hurrying over to the door, bending down in an attempt to slip his fingers underneath and lift it up. It didn’t even wobble. Joe cursed and went over to help, laughing to himself at the irony of he and his rival working together, but even their combined efforts achieved nothing.

“Andy come on, this isn’t funny.” He shouted through the door, and Nicky echoed his sentiment.

“Sort. It. Out.” She said. Joe could hear her footsteps echoing away along the tarmac. Fuck. He’d been _going_ to do that anyway, there was no need for this.

Beside him, Nicky shouted after Andy, soon exhausting his English and slipping into Italian. No one came to their aid.

“Louder, Nicky, I don’t think they heard you.” Joe said dryly.

Nicky swore at him in Italian, then repeated his curses as a shout. He kicked the garage door in frustration, the noise of the shutters shaking echoing around the room. He paced around the garage a few times, running his fingers through his hair and rubbing his moustache in exasperation before admitting defeat and slumping to the ground, his back to the wall and his head in his hands. Joe remained by the door, unsure of what exactly to do. Eventually Nicky looked up at him, his hair falling into his eyes.

“I suppose we’d better talk.” He said.

*****

They talked about everything but the huge elephant of a smashed Ferrari in the room. Conversation was uncomfortable, stilted, neither of their hearts really in it. They talked about Le Livre’s chances at Renault, and about whether the officials at Silverstone would get their act together and finally replace the tarmac on the start/finish straight.

“Me and some of the other drivers, we’re thinking about striking when we get to South Africa. We’re not happy competing in a country where apartheid is still in place.” Joe said, deciding that then was as good a time as any to bring the subject up. He would have had to tell Nicky at some point anyways.

“And you were going to tell me this when?” Nicky asked. Joe couldn’t help but laugh.

“When was I going to tell you? When you were busy forcing me off the track or when you were swinging at me after?”

“I would have liked to know. I could help. I do not think any of you competent enough to organise such a strike.” Nicky sniffed.

“Well you know now.”

“I do.” Nicky’s lip curled into a smile. “So who else do we have?”

“Le Livre, Schneider, the Tyrrells and Heskeths and the Williams lot. Haven’t asked D’Angelo yet.” Joe realised, saying it out loud, that he’d spoken about it to everyone but the Ferrari drivers. He hoped Nicky wouldn’t make a big deal out of it. To his relief, Nicky simply asked:

“Does Andy know?”

Joe shook his head. “We’re going to leave it until the last possible minute before making it official. Don’t want anyone trying to stop us.”

“A good plan. We should- did your stomach just rumble?” Nicky narrowed his eyes at Joe. Joe covered his stomach defensively.

“No?”

Nicky snorted and pulled himself to his feet, stretching. He proceeded to poke around the garage, opening drawers and rummaging around in boxes.

“What are you doing?” Joe asked suspiciously.

“Looking... ah.” Nicky straightened, triumphant, and turned back to Joe with an apple in each hand. “The mechanics often have to work through mealtimes. I’ve taken to hiding snacks around the garage for them so they don’t go hungry.” He explained, smiling slightly at Joe’s look of confusion.

Joe had honestly spent the last year convinced that Nicky didn’t care about anyone other than himself, yet here was undeniable truth of the opposite. He realised, with a slight pang of regret, that he knew better than anyone that adrenaline and competition could do strange things to a man, and that truly di Genova was likely no more an asshole than he himself was.

“It’s not much, but I think there should be some chocolate somewhere too.” Nicky offered the apple out to Joe.

“Thanks.” Joe took a bite of the apple. It was crisp and not too sweet, just how he liked them. “It’s not the worst meal I’ve had, depressingly enough.”

“Ah yes, your old team- what was that horrible slogan about breakfast again?” Nicky asked with a glint in his eye.

“Sex, the breakfast of champions.” Joe snorted as he remembered. “Yes, it was rather horrible, wasn’t it? Not my idea, I want to add.”

“I normally just have toast.” Nicky said, overly sincere, and Joe was so surprised by the joke that a laugh was pulled from him.

“I didn’t realise you had a sense of humour.” He said.

“There’s a lot you don’t realise about me.” Nicky replied, and Joe was certain there was a hint of sadness in his voice. “I did like the teddy bear though.” He added, after a beat.

“Ah now that _was_ me.” Joe grinned.

The conversation flowed slightly better after that, and better still when Nicky found the chocolate he had stashed at the back of one of the tool trays. Neither of them apologised to the other, and there was still a sense that the fragile peace between them could break at any moment, but it was a definite improvement. Joe hoped Andy was on the other side of the door, listening in and ready to release them at any moment.

“I admit,” Joe said, hoping a compliment could speed that along, “you do have a knack for setting the car up. I can tell when something’s off, I can just never put my finger on _what_.”

Nicky smiled, a genuine smile that suited his face a lot more than the self-satisfied smirk he usually wore.

“Thanks. God gave me an ok mind, but a great ass. If the suspension is too rigid, if the timing belt is wearing through, I can tell.”

Nicky didn’t mean it like that. He couldn’t have. But Joe agreed: he had a _great_ ass. It was almost a shame he mostly saw it encased in fireproof overalls. He waited for a moment, wondering if Andy would choose to let them out then, but nothing happened. He sighed.

“Still hungry?” Nicky asked him, misreading his expression. “I don’t think I have more food, but I can check?”

“It’s fine. I’m just tired. Wish Andy would let us out already.”

“Mmm.” Nicky nodded. He stood up again, but instead of poking around in the cupboards he made his way over to the one tiny window in the garage. It was small, barely big enough to stick a head out of, but climbed up on a chair and opened it.

“Do you want one?” He asked Joe, and Joe realised he had a packet of cigarettes in his hand. He shook his head.

Nicky shrugged in response and shook out a cigarette, taking it between his lips before lighting it and leaning against the window. Something stirred in Joe’s belly, growing and curling inside of him just as the smoke grew and curled as Nicky blew it out of the window. Nicolò di Genova was an asshole and his closest rival, but for a brief moment Joe wished he were anything but. He turned his attention to the ground beneath his feet, resolutely not looking at the other man.

“Perhaps we should talk about what Andy _wants_ us to talk about.” Nicky said.

“Perhaps.” Joe reluctantly agreed. He still didn’t look up from the floor.

“This goes deeper than the racing, I think.” Nicky assessed. “We were not friends last year, but we were not... this.”

Joe sighed. Nicky was horribly close to the truth, and at the heart of it he knew it was own pride that was to blame.

“I wanted that Ferrari seat.” He said, deciding to be honest. “I thought I _should_ have got it. And when you got it... I assumed it was because you were Italian. Of course they’d pick you over me.”

“And it didn’t cross your mind that I may simply have been better?” Nicky asked. There was no gloating in his tone, no insult, only honest curiosity.

“Of course not. This is the highest level of racing: we’re all here because we believe we’re the best, and the instant we believe we’re not we’re done for. You can’t allow yourself to think for one moment that you’re only good for second place.”

Nicky nodded, tapping the ash from his cigarette out the window.

“McLaren is a good team though.” He said. “Perhaps not Ferrari, but with a spot of luck you have a shot at a championship title.”

“I know.” Joe huffed. “I know that _now_. God, it all seems so petty doesn’t it.” He laughed bitterly. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. We’ve both behaved like children.”

“We have.” Nicky agreed. “I’m sorry too. For... you know.”

“Charging at me like a bull seeing red?”

“I wouldn’t say _charge_ , but yes. You have my apologies.” He stubbed out his cigarette and rested it carefully on the windowsill then walked over to Joe, hand outstretched. “Give me another chance?”

“If you do the same for me.” Joe said, taking Nicky’s hand in his. For all the time he allegedly spent experimenting with set-up and configurations with his mechanics, the other man’s hand was surprisingly soft. Joe might have grasped it for longer than was strictly necessary.

“You know, D’Angelo is thinking next season may be his last. If you like, I could put in a good word for you. It would not be so terrible to have you as a teammate.” Nicky said, his piercing eyes earnest as he looked at Joe.

“I wouldn’t say no...” Joe considered. Would Nicky really have that much sway over who his teammate was? Did he even really want Joe, or was he just being polite? Joe decided he didn’t care. Ferrari was Ferrari, no matter how he got there. “Are you not worried me beating you in the same car would look bad?” He teased.

Nicky laughed. “As if you could.” He dropped to the floor next to Joe, sat closer than they had before. “Do you know, I’m almost glad Andy locked us in here. I’ve always hated how things turned out between us, but I could never find the right way to try to change things. We only see each other when we’re racing and honestly? You’re an asshole when we’re racing. _I’m_ an asshole when we’re racing.”

Joe laughed. “You could be worse. I reckon Peterson’s a bigger asshole.”

“Oh Peterson’s the _worst_.” Nicky agreed, snorting. “Did you see that move he pulled on Schneider at Imola?”

“Who reverses down the pit straight?!” Joe grinned. “And did you see what he was wearing yesterday?”

“A crime. That jacket was an actual crime.”

“One of these days I’m going to cut the fringe off. Save us all the eyesore.”

Nicky was smiling fully now, and the smile did weird things to Joe’s brain. How had he never appreciated Nicky’s smile before? How had he never noticed that his piercing eyes were actually the most calming shade of blue/green he’d ever seen? And his _voice_. Joe found that he could listen to him talk for hours.

It almost felt like he did, for he could see through the small window that had grown dark outside. And still no sign of Andy. Joe shivered slightly: the fireproof overalls offered some warmth, but not enough. Nicky noticed and frowned.

“There must be a coat or something around here.” He muttered, setting off to look around the garage.

“I’m alright, really.” Joe said. He was lying.

Nicky eventually unearthed a large fur coat, as ridiculously shaggy as it was large. He laughed as he held it out to Joe.

“I think it’s D’Angelo’s wife’s.” He said. “But at least it looks warm.”

“Do you not want it?” Joe asked, though he was itching to take the coat himself.

“I’m alright.” Nicky smiled. He was lying too, Joe could tell.

“It’s large enough to blanket us both if we sit next to each other.” Joe said, moving to sit back down against the wall and motioning for Nicky to join him. After a moment Nicky complied, and spread the heavy coat across them both. Joe sighed contentedly. That was better.

Neither of them spoke as they snuggled under their makeshift blanket, and Joe’s arm burned like a brand where Nicky’s arm was pressed against his. He wasn’t sure what made him do it, or where his sudden burst of courage came from, but one moment they were sat side by side and the next Joe was turning his head to press his lips against Nicky’s.

He felt Nicky stiffen at the contact, and he made to pull back, to apologise, but before he could Nicky’s hand shot out to wrap around his, and suddenly Nicky was kissing _him_. They shouldn’t be doing this, they should have just talked and left it at that, but talking was the furthest thing from Joe’s mind at that moment.

Nicky tasted of smoke and sweat and it should have been disgusting, but Joe found himself moaning into the kiss and parting his lips, eager for more. Nicky’s moustache tickled, but Joe decided that he rather liked it, and when Nicky’s tongue licked into his mouth, demanding entrance, any reservations Joe had about what they were doing vanished completely.

The coat fell away from their shoulders as the kiss developed, as it grew hungrier and more desperate. Nicky’s hands wandered over Joe’s torso, and Joe pulled Nicky towards him in return. He was so much warmer than the coat.

Joe trailed kisses along Nicky’s jaw, down the bridge of his nose, along the length of his neck. He sucked bruises into the sensitive skin there, thrilled by the gasping pants and moans that his ministrations elicited from Nicky. He admired his work as he pulled back; Nicky’s pale throat was decorated in several deep red marks. _Ferrari red_ Joe thought to himself, and almost laughed.

Instead he returned to Nicky’s mouth, kissing him with a hunger he didn’t realise he possessed. Nicky pulled him into his lap, his arms sweeping up the expanse of Joe’s back and tugging him closer still. Joe’s heart thudded as he pressed against Nicky, wanting more, wanting to be closer, wanting-

With a clatter the shutter door to the garage flew up, and they broke apart from each other with a jump.

“Well.” Andy said, a sly smile on her face as she looked down at them. “I’d say you finally worked out your differences, huh?”

*****

Somehow, inexplicably, the peace between Joe and Nicky held. It more than held, in fact, and race after race the two found themselves being drawn closer and closer together. Di Genova was still an asshole. Nicky, however, was quickly becoming the light of Joe’s life. Joe would bemoan every Ferrari win in public during the day then whisper his congratulations into Nicky’s ear at night. Nicky, for his part, managed to become Joe’s biggest fan and biggest enemy. When Peterson took Nicky out in the opening lap at the Nordschleife Joe was spurred on to victory by the sight of Nicky cheering from the end of the pit lane.

The strike in South Africa, bar the rather serious subject matter, was the most fun Joe had had in a race weekend that he could remember. All of the drivers had piled into a bus and driven about town, stopping to protest and picnic in equal measure. Andy, the only non-driver on the bus and _officially_ there to keep tabs on them all for the FIA, seemingly produced a cooler of beers out of nowhere and the day flew by.

When the evening came around the driver unanimously decided to drag their mattresses and blankets down to the hotel’s function room, and organised themselves into a peculiar semblance of a sleep-over. Teammates and rivals mixed and talked and told dirty jokes, and no-one batted an eyelid when Nicky positioned his mattress right next to Joe’s.

Someone located more beers. Le Livre dusted off the old piano in the corner of the room and treated them all to the most ridiculous variety of music. Nicky slipped his foot under his blanket and across to Joe’s bed, resting it unseen against Joe’s foot. They didn’t dare embrace let alone kiss at that moment, but the simple touch still sent sparks through Joe’s body.

“It’s a shame we’re not racing this weekend.” Nicky commented, facing away from Joe as he watched two of the other drivers waltz around the room, out of time with Booker’s music. “You could really use the points.”

“There’s still two races left. I reckon I can take you.” Joe snorted.

Nicky turned to look at Joe, his eyes bright and that smirk of his, that damned teasing, kissable smirk in place on his lips.

“You can try.”

**Author's Note:**

> Ok yes the F1 apartheid strike was the 80s and I’ve merged it with the earlier strike about contracts but consider this: I wanted to include the great F1 sleepover.
> 
> All the other little details beside that are mostly inspired by Rush, one of my favourite films. And if you spotted the name of an F1 driver that I've snuck into the dialogue as a shitty joke... 10 points to you.


End file.
